


Saudade

by E_Ingram_1941



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: I'm Sorry, M/M, Post-Dunkirk Evacuation, Sad, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:28:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_Ingram_1941/pseuds/E_Ingram_1941
Summary: (n.) A Portuguese word that means a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant or that has been loved and then lost; "the love that remains."
Relationships: Commander Bolton/Colonel Winnant
Kudos: 2
Collections: 'Hands'





	Saudade

**Author's Note:**

> I've always had a love for Commander Bolton and Colonel Winnant, though I never quite knew I would explore the two characters and a relationship between them until recently. Thank you for stopping by. I hope all are well and continue to be well.

It had been a quiet affair.

_“It isn’t much, Anthony, but-”_

_“No no, Charles. No I – they’re beautiful.” He can not explain the feeling curling around his ribs. Gingerly, his hands take in the two rings, afraid that he might ruin them with his clumsiness. They are wider than normal rings, starting thin at one end and opening up as they loop. They are not intricate or expensive, but in Winnant’s eyes, they are priceless. “What were they called again?” he mutters, unable to take his eyes off of the bands._

_Bolton chuckles, a sonorous sound. “Spoon rings,” he offers, taking one from Winnant’s palm. Then his own hands, rough from a life of hard work and duty yet gentle in their movements, take Winnant’s hand. “Back in the, oh, 17 th century, servants couldn’t afford actual rings. So they would take cutlery from their masters and make rings from the handles.” As he says this, one of his hands holds the ring, the other Winnant’s fingers. “It is said that these rings represented love and commitment in defiance of strict social and, well, economic barriers.” With this, Bolton slides the ring over his ring finger. There is the slightest tremble there, as if Winnant would refuse him. _

_“Is that so?” he whispers, afraid to break whatever is between them._

_“Well, according to legend…” Bolton’s voice trails off._

_Winnant finally gets courage to look up and finds himself quite surprised. If he looks, really looks, he can tell that Bolton is blushing. He is struck with awe. “Charles-” But rather than continue to jumble out some sort of romantic sap, Winnant puts the other ring on Bolton’s finger. Then he swoops down, pressing his mouth to Bolton’s. They merge together, the world falling away into little more than a haze._

“Anthony?”

Winnant looks up from his chair, nearly sunken into the old cushions. His body goes still entirely. The voice belonged to a woman, and it isn’t until she steps into the dim lamp light that he can see who it is. “Oh, Gloria.” As he goes to stand, Gloria holds up her hand.

“Anthony, how long have you been sat there?”

He looks at the fire, nothing but coals now. Suddenly the chill of the room is in his clothes, his bones. His hand instinctively goes to his ring, thumb running along the flowers inlaid in the metal. A sigh runs through him, relaxing his shoulders. Agitation, however, is a crack up his spine. “Why are you here, Gloria?”

Something akin to a huff escapes her as she steps forward, tossing logs into the fireplace. She blows on the embers and stirs the whole thing around, getting a good fire going. All the while, she says nothing. Her hair is peppered with gray strands, hidden beneath blonde and wrapped in a bun. Once she is content, Gloria stands and makes her way into the kitchen. The light is switched on, bright and unyielding. The sounds of the water running get’s his attention.

“Leave my dishes alo-”

“I’m making tea.”

“I’m not in the mood for tea, Gloria-”

“Well, I am,” she affirms, voice tight. “And since this is _Charles’_ home, I’ll make tea when I damn well please.”

Winnant rolls his eyes. Despite the aggravation licking at his skull, he feels affection for the stout woman. She is the opposite of her brother, quick to snap someone’s head off should their actions call for it. He could never understand how the two were related. “You know, this is _my_ home too.” His tone is barely above a murmur.

She hears him anyway. “Yes, but Charles said I could use his kettle whenever I wanted.”

“Don’t you have one of your own?”

Gloria places the kettle on the stove and lights it. “Hmm.”

Though there is a part of Winnant that wants to tell her to get out, a more secret part of him is happy she is here. Her heels sound on the hardwood as she makes her way into the sitting room, taking her place in the chair to his left.

_His_ chair.

The agitation sours into grief. “Why are you here Gloria?”

She knows he won’t put up with her round about ways, not like he used to. A pout comes about her face, and as Winnant looks at her, he sees Charles in every bit of her features. Gloria looks up at him, and somehow, her atmosphere softens. “I came to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s horse shite, and you know it.” The words come out of her like a lash, slicing at any argument he might have had. “You’ve not come out of this bloody house for weeks. You do nothing but sulk and mope about. Look at the dust! Look at the floors! If you’re going to live in Charles’ house, the least you could do is keep it up!”

The kettle suddenly sings, a sharp, harsh sound that makes Winnant jump in his chair. Again, his fingers instinctively go to the ring. His jaw tightens, teeth clenching as he stares forward. The designs on the ring, bustling cornucopias and tiny flowers, ground him. In his mind, he counts. _One. Two. Three. Four._

_“Three. Two. One. Alright, Anthony. Open your eyes.” Bolton’s voice is warm, kind and lit with excitement._

_"Charles, what…what is this?” Before them is a very small church, nestled on some grassy hill. A humble graveyard sits some distance away, and to the right is a tiny fence covered in vines. Winnant turns to look at his partner to see him smiling._

_“I thought, since we’ve got rings, we ought to at least make it official.”_

_Winnnat’s smile is disbelieving. “But, Charles…no priest in his right mind would marry us. Even if we are in France.”_

_Bolton’s smile fades. It withers to a sad reflection of itself. “That might be so, but it’s not illegal here, and I assumed that, should we say our vows and exchange our rings in front of God, that it would be legitimate.”_

_The feeling Winnant finds in himself is somewhere caught between absolute love and terror. Should someone happen to waltz in and find two men binding themselves together, they would surely be put in prison. Their love might not be illegal in France, but to be married wasn’t exactly approved of either. However, Winnant notices the look on Bolton’s face and sighs. How could he ever deny him?_

_“If you don’t want to,” Bolton starts, but Winnant cuts him off._

_“Of course I want to.” Winnant delicately takes Boltons’ face in his, the thought of them being caught be damned. “My God, Charles, there is nothing more on this earth that I want. But I just-”_

_“I know, Anthony. I know.” The two kiss, Bolton tilting his head into Winnant’s. They press their mouths together, only pulling apart to touch foreheads. “Anthony?”_

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear me?” Gloria’s voice yanks him from the sea of the past. When Winnant looks at her, the expression she wears is no longer hostile. Rather, it is kind and tinted with worry, guilt.

He swallows. “I’m sorry, Gloria I didn’t,” he clears his throat. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you wanted some tea?”

It is then that he notices a cup and saucer in her hands. Her fingers, dainty yet strong, hold it out. “I uhm-”

“And don’t worry. Made it just how you like it.”

With a nod and a small ‘thank you,’ Winnant takes the pair from her. He doesn’t sip it, however, instead choosing to just hold in in his grasp. There is an itch to his skin, the pad of his thumb almost longing to continue to trace the design of the ring.

He forces himself to take a swallow of the tea.

It is bitter sweet, too much bite and not enough softness. This makes him smile, as it is certainly made by Gloria Bolton. Then his throat gets tight. His heart clenches in his ribs, stealing his breath. The tea cup almost slips from his grasp, but he takes hold again before setting it down on the small table beside him.

Again, his thumb races to the ring.

Tears prick his eyes. The sudden realization that he would never taste Charles’ tea again settles over him like a crashing house. The timbers of his mind, the foundation of his entire life, falls inward atop him.

His body is a mass of trembling nerves and broken pieces.

Then hands are about his own, familiar but distant.

“Anthony?”

He closes his eyes.

_Charles is gone._

“Anthony, can you hear me?”

" _Almost 300,000. So far.”_

_His husband is dead._

“Anthony.”

_Left on some beach._

_“So far?”_

“Anthony, look at me.”

_"I’m staying.”_

_And for what?_

“For God’s sake, Anthony!”

“ _For the French.”_

_What glory was found in death?_

“ANTHONY.”

He startles as a harsh slap meets his cheek. The crack of skin on skin is near deafening. For a moment, there is nothing. No church, no darkening sky. Bolton is not getting smaller and smaller as he stands about the mole. Waves are not crashing, his heart isn’t slipping away from him.

Yet his body is rocking.

“Anthony…” Gloria’s voice is a broken thing, pulling his attention towards her. For a second, she looks like Charles. It’s in the eyes, the nose, the crow’s feet. Tears dance across her expression. “Anthony, it’s alright.”

Winnant shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Gloria.” He can barely get the words out. They crumble past his teeth, stumbling into the air like confused children. “It’s my fault.” He leans forward, head on her shoulder as she holds him. “I should have stayed,” he gasps, “I should have stayed.” He can feel her shaking her head, but she says nothing as he continues to sob into her the collar of her dress. One of her hands strokes his back as the other holds his face to hers.

His eyes clench shut.

_“Anthony?”_

An ache, deep and penetrating, bursts through him.

_“There’s going to be a war.”_

Tears, fat and heavy and hot, stream over his cheeks.

_“But I’ve put you under my command.”_

His hands clench at her shoulders.

_“We’re going to be together.”_

Winnant cries out. He sobs. All the words which escape him are incoherent. Years of nothing but weak hope wither, crops in a drought.

_“Are we going to make it out of here?” Winnant asks, leaning against the railing of the mole. The paint is chipping, the wood of it rattling with every step. He looks down into the waves as they crash against the stone, foam white and violent._

_Everyone around them is asleep or pretending to be. Their backs are to the beach, facing towards the endless outstretch of the Channel. Their shoulders touch, sharing warmth. He looks to his commander. The white turtle-neck hugs Bolton, an old Christmas gift, a favored sentiment._

_In the deception of the night, a hand covers his own. “Of course we are, Anthony.” Bolton stares out into the dark, face still. Despite the unrest, despite the tension and the world blowing to pieces, somehow his commander, his husband, is calm._

_Winnant looks forward. “How do you know?”_

_The hand around his own tightens._

_He glances down. A glint of silver catches his eye. Winnant moves his hand to instead rest atop Bolton’s. “You’re right, darling. We will make it.” He smiles, or tries, and instinctively his thumb runs along twin cornucopias and flowers gracing the ring that adorns it._

**Author's Note:**

> The information on the Spoon Rings comes from an article titled "About Spoon Rings: The History of the Spoon Ring." 
> 
> As for why they are in France, "in 1791, Revolutionary France (and Andorra) adopted a new penal code which no longer criminalized sodomy." The French Penal Code of 1791 "...did not enforce Catholic morality; there were, for example, no prohibitions against sodomy (this being the first Western code of law to decriminalize such conduct since Classical Antiquity)." This code, "only punished 'true crimes,' not the artificial offenses condemned by 'superstition.'" The Napoleonic Penal Code of 1810 replaced this code; however, like the code before it, did not punish "imaginary crimes, such as heresy, sodomy or blasphemy, thereby legalizing them by omission." Issued on June 3, 1810, it stayed in use until March 1, 1994.


End file.
